


White Sun

by horse



Category: Dark Souls (Video Games), Dark Souls I
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-02
Updated: 2018-07-11
Packaged: 2019-03-12 18:06:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13552740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/horse/pseuds/horse
Summary: The world is dark, but for a soft light at the window.





	1. i

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not sure how long this will go, or if I can update at a decent rate, as this is very self-indulgent! But I mean for it to be a light-hearted beat in the persistent melancholy that is DS lore. Also I'm sorry if I make any lore-related mistakes.

“It won’t serve you.” Ornstein says firmly, though not without some hint of amusement. Artorias turns towards the sound of his voice, broken from reverie, and his silence is, perhaps, enough to hint to the Commander that the meaning of those words escape him.

“That child.”

“Calling him that, still, is the real disservice.” Artorias remarks, and Ornstein can practically see those cold eyes roll, shadowed as they are by fabric, and the beak of his silvered helm.

“As you say.” The lion rumbles, and smiles behind his golden shell.

True, yes. It does him no service to catch those glimpses of the godling - those rare moments before he slithers back to solitude. Artorias swears he heard that Gwyndolin never left his designated chambers, and yet…

 _It won’t serve you._ Yes, well. The splendor of Anor Londo paled to nothing in those infernal seconds. In those flashes of gold, those brush strokes of cream and periwinkle. Sweet horrors, had he ever known the name for that hue before Gwyndolin?

The knight focuses on the sound of the company descending the stairs, away from the castle.

 

\---

 

It is so quiet here.

Artorias lets his boots fall as faintly as allows, but his size helps him very little in his quest to be unassuming. There is a rippling ahead, some kind of magic, and then, a soft voice.

“Sir Artorias.”

Caught like a damned fly. Artorias sighs, cradles his helm closer and tries not to look too sheepish.

“Apologies, my Lord. I made sure to come only so far as my compatriots would dare.”

Gwyndolin peeks around a curtain, lifts his helm ever so slightly, and two things become clear: why Ornstein _insists_ on infantilising him, and why Artorias is right to contest the habit. There are characteristics that are distinctly innocent about the god - mostly behaviours, as expected of an entity that rarely socialises, if ever. His eyes, having not seen much, pale and vibrant and curious. 

His propensity for reservation and poise, however, are as mature as his frame, the likes of which Artorias has not seen in decades, unless it was through glass, and hence, distorted (pleasantly, by stained cathedral windows or the otherwise thick and obscuring ones). This, he finds, is to his distinct disadvantage, having been caught off guard by the sight.

“It is… no bother. Rest assured. Though I bid thee come no further, for reasons of my own.”

“Of course, my Lord.” Artorias replies immediately, obediently, bowing his head in concordance. “I only wish to see you well.” The phrase was awkward, leaving his tongue; nothing like the lengthy prose he saved for Ciaran, who could mirror it. Nothing like the confident, jestering jousts he enjoyed with Ornstein and Smough. Even Gough was easier to speak with. For some reason, in this moment, Artorias regrets the choice to unmask, fearing that his anxieties would map themselves out in his expression, and the colour of his cheeks.

Gwyndolin seems entranced, silent for a beat, one hand still clinging limply but stubbornly to gossamer fabric. “I-I am well.” He clears his throat, and the moment is so endearing, Artorias has to fight a smile - for all the things he’s fought in the past week, this proves maddeningly difficult. “If that is all the business we have...”

“One moment.” The knight interjects. He shouldn’t have, and he knows it, but something in him spoke the words before he could swallow them for protocol. He lowers his head, at least, so that he might humbly stare at the floor.

“I look once more upon the surface still,  
To see the moon again in hallowed light;  
Lo, do readily give their hearts to spill,  
The beasts and men alike that roam the night.”

He could not have beared to watch Gwyndolin along the while he spoke, much less recited poetry - of his own crafting, no less. But no one could know. When Artorias does finally cast his gaze upwards, he finds Gwyndolin with a hand on his helm, having pulled it back down. He seems flustered, or maybe Artorias imagines that.

“You should not be here.”

His heart sinks. The grip on his helm tightens, heart racing when he sees Gwyndolin approach, and fears the worst.

“I-”

“Allay all fears, sir knight… you are a man of grace and duty, ‘tis avowed.” The god’s hands move away to clasp each other at his waist. Artorias lets the warm words spoken in calmness wash over him, picking at the shipwrecked anxieties wedged in the stones of his heart. One by perilous one. There is room to breathe, now, knowing that he has at least entertained the other.

“I only meant that… this is not proper.”

“If it displeases a God, he will hear no more of my foolishness.” Artorias musters with a clumsy smile, and he swears that Gwyndolin mirrors it before turning his head, and then away.

“I had heard some sonnets go on for a lifetime.” Comes the quiet response, and then there is no more Gwyndolin; only a tall knight in the hall, holding his helm to his bosom, eyes fixed to the last place he’d caught the glimmer of fluttering white robes.


	2. ii

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fret not, there are scarce tales of celestial bodies aligning for bad poetry."

Sonnets do not go on forever; not as Artorias knows them, anyway. Should he write something longer? Then it would no longer be a sonnet… concrete answers danced out of reach. Unfair. Artorias is used to knowing exactly what to do, and exactly what is expected of him.

Before their next set of romps, Artorias turns towards that topmost window of the castle… or rather, the quartet of panes, as they are layed. Sometimes there is nothing, and sometimes, there is a presence there, glowing white, gold glinting above the delicate frame.

Smough does his rumbling chuckle, slapping a heavy hand on his shoulder, making him tilt with the gesture. Artorias turns towards him sharply, but says nothing, caught again. Ornstein is shaking his head, but the silver knight knows the lion is more amused than frustrated.

Artorias takes to wandering in the night, though not selfishly; certainly, he wishes to chance upon Gwyndolin again, but is content to roam the courtyards and outside edges of the castle, and to bask in the calming light of the moon. Night, here, is different than the abyss - blacker than black… endless… here, there is royal blue and purple, there is a family of greens, of reds, and flecks of pearlescent pinks… he can swim in that peace, in that comfort of colour and substance.

Tonight he has shed a fair portion of his armour - of all his friends, he tends to this the least. He is a man that delights in the world of shadow, and remaining as hidden and hard to catch. Most days, he depends on it. 

He is content to be the silent, acquiescing servant. He supposes that to some it may sound distasteful, but he is made pure by his cause, by his devotion to that higher power. There is solace in his faith. Solace in the certainty that his Lord will direct him in justice and in honour. There has never been reason to doubt that - so there has never been reason to act out of accordance.

To him, the sight of his long, inky tresses, tinted blue in the gleam of night, is strange. He holds some of it between his fingers, gives a breath of a laugh, and wonders when he’ll have the mind to cut it. Perhaps never. There is strength in the length of it… spiritually speaking. To cut it would mean to choose a new path and a new life. That was something he would never desire.

Descending a small staircase, he comes to a ledge, and sits to survey what lays beyond his perch. It is a grand sight, as always… the absence of Sif’s soft padding is palpable; it makes him anxious… she is so much of his strength. His chest shakes with a silent chuckle. Would he be much without her, he wonders?

“But hence the moon itself fell from the sky,  
To… say… no. To…”

Why hadn’t he brought parchment… he inhales, looking upwards. “But hence the moon… itself fell from the sky, to-”

“To one sir knight, apart from all the swarm,”

Artorias turns around, catching the tail end of a snicker. He briefly wonders if anyone has caught so much of a glimpse of that, and the wonder fills his chest with something both light and heavy.

“My liege-”

“Go on.” The god says softly, in a voice that is low but gentle and smooth. Why must everything about him be so beautiful?

The knight is silent for a beat, mind searching for the words so desires… impressive, archaic words… nothing of the sort comes at call; he closes his eyes.

“And sat beside the gallant with a sigh…” He hears Gwyndolin laugh more audibly this time, and offers a lop-sided grin in response.

“‘Gallant’?”

“Rest assured, I think not as highly of my… fashions.” Artorias professed, gesturing to himself, warranting another shake of robed shoulders. Gwyndolin moves towards him, snakes coiling into something that would constitute a sit by all means. He sighs, planting unmarred, polite and polished hands in his lap, and turns to Artorias.

“And then?”

Artorias swallows, trying to keep composure. He feels his lip twitch with a smile, feels his eyebrow twitch with anxiety. The other man is so close… not a man. A god. The re-discovery doesn’t make matters any better.

“Hm...” He watches Gwyndolin shift, watches slender fingers curl slightly. “Perhaps the moon is lonely.”

“Mmm.”

The air is cool, flows through his tunic.

“If only for the chance to bask in warmth.” Artorias pauses. ”Not a proper rhyme, but…”

“True, anyway. The moon is cold, and men’s hearts are made of fire.” Pale hands dislodge that twinkling golden headdress. Artorias watches as white hair falls messily down in elegant, haphazard waves. Not nearly as long as his own… barely brushing shoulders. That is not what he focuses on, or at least not for long. There is a graceful slope of a nose, lips held together in permanent smile, soft cheeks and chin… a pretty jawline, masculine but not grotesquely so - not out of place… there was a distinct genderless quality to the whole of him, Artorias noticed… it was pleasant ambiguity. Pale eyes met the grey of his; they were faintly inhuman… serpentine. 

After what must have been too long, Artorias breaks the silence, and looks away only to avoid making Gwyndolin self-conscious.

“You are too warm and bright to be the moon, then.”

Gwyndolin looks uncomfortable before his expression returns to something familiarly impassive. There is a mirth to it, though, shining through.

“So it is not about me… your sonnet.”

Artorias laughs, nervously, but it is genuine; it was obvious from the start for whom he wrote and recited, that much must have been obvious.

“I have yet to finish.”

“Oh?”

“Mm.”

Artorias glances at Gwyndolin, who leans forward. 

“You… My lord, you cannot expect me to finish here and now.”

“Why ever not?”

Gods, he daren’t look at Gwyndolin for too long, lest he cast aside all reason and follow every such whim of the gorgeous creature beside him - but he hasn’t the talent to simply… compose an entire... sonnet before the damned… _son_ of… of…

“There are… I must…” For the life of him, he can’t find the words. It is hard to explain, after all, how he comes to his own musings… and they have really only ever been that - he doesn’t fancy himself a poet, or even a romantic. He sighs at long last, closing his eyes with a smile before peeking back up at Gwyndolin, who is watching him expectantly. Heavens. Where is Sif now? In his most dire hour…

“‘What troubles plague thee so?’ questions sir knight,  
The moon turns to the chevalier and tells:  
‘I dread the cold, the fading of the light;  
In solitude, I fear I’m cursed to dwell.’

‘Then come with me to my true love’, says he,  
‘The white sun, who frees all, like he has me.’”

Artorias keeps his gaze ahead and steady, masking crushing fear with a fragile shell of serenity. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees his company fidget, and it strikes him out of character… he supposes it isn’t at all, just that he doesn’t know all that much about Gwyndolin’s character to begin with.

“That would cause an eclipse.” Gwyndolin says quietly. Artorias allows his head to turn.

“Fret not, there are scarce tales of celestial bodies aligning for bad poetry.” Gwyndolin lets slip a laugh, clearly not an intended laugh by the placement of his hand to pretty mouth. Artorias stares before he remembers himself, but his reverant smile persists as he continues. “Though any one of them would be jealous enough of you to try, I expect. I must recognise you as the indefinite danger.”

A sadness fills the god’s smile, and Gwyndolin turns to watch his fumbling hands. “You would have sense to.” Noting the change in demeanor, Artorias pauses to choose his words carefully. He attempts to soften himself as well, knowing how his edges show.

“Only to hearts, and to nothing else.” He reassures, leaning and then tilting to look up at Gwyndolin from a comical angle, perhaps to sell his words all the more expertly. It seems to work - the heaviness lifts, and Gwyndolin raises a brow at his antics.

“I never took the Great Knight Artorias for a coquette.”

“He is nothing of the sort, by and large, except with a sword.”

Gwyndolin laughs once more against his will, and looks almost frustrated by the candidness he cannot help to bare. He pushes Artorias away by the face quiet cruelly, and the man snorts, straightening again.

“You are the white sun.” It is a sure sentiment as any; Artorias laments in his exposure. He is afraid of it. Anything could pierce him now, especially Gwyndolin’s deadly arrows.

“Not a sun, nor a son; you are wrong on dual fronts. That would mean your sure demise in combat.”

“T’were it truth.”

“Your character has become frightfully audacious.”

Artorias can only watch on, afraid to speak out of line. Gwyndolin is still his lord. He is about to apologise, to straighten and fall back into a less familiar disposition, when he feels something light at his shoulder.

Carefully, he peers down, catching the silver-lit curves of Gwyndolin’s face. His long lashes. The god’s delicate head rests as if they were the closest of friends, or…

Well, it is unthinkable, so Artorias spares himself the sin of it.

“I did not command you into silence. I was simply remarking on your brazen depature from etiquette.”

“I only meant that I will see you as you are, and not as dictated otherwise. Who are you?”

“...Gwyndolin, son of Gwyn.”

“And so it was said, and so it is, and so it will be, heretofore and henceforth.” Artorias stretches his free arm outwards, gesturing dramatically, and he knows his audience smiles.

“Now I have the mind to command you to silence.” 

It’s Artorias’ turn to laugh. He is careful to keep it close-mouthed, as not to disturb the grace at his side.

Though it feels like no time passes, they do not depart until the sun breaks. Though the knight begins to regret forsaking sleep, the spoils of his conduct are irrefutably invaluable. He lingers for some time at the ledge, enough to watch the sky break into blinding light, and for the sun to begin his walk over stone.


	3. iii

He dreams about that laugh. He knows it could not be anything but folley; even still, it chimes like healing bells in his mind.

“I know you cannot be mine,” The godling says in a moment of respite, when Artorias has snuck himself away again under the guise of professional secrecy. “Not while calamity bites at our heels, and as my father stands sovereign lord.”

Artorias feels his lips sink into an understanding smile. He doesn’t respond, only surveys the horizon in contemplative silence. It is cold despite the light, and he sees his own breath as it leaves him, even inside the halls. What is the cold to gods, he wonders?

‘ _Does it bother you?_ ’ Gwyndolin had asked. Artorias stares into the snow, tattered blue fabric at the sides of his face flying in and out of periphery. It did bother him, in a manner of speaking. A lot of things bothered him.

“I never took you for an imbecile.” Ornstein claps a hand on his shoulder and he nearly jumps out of his armour. The other man is shorter, and yet somehow, still radiates a heated ferocity that intimidates regardless. Any respectable man would near shit himself at being clamped down on out of nowhere, let alone by the Dragonslayer. There’s no shame in the feel of pins and needles that befalls him. He is only thankful his body remained still, hiding his surprise.

“That is your mistake.” The silver knight answers flatly, automatically. Ornstein gives a metallic laugh, the lion’s face of his helm unmoving, making the sound ever more endearing. Artorias knows the kind eyes and tight smile too well to cheat himself the image of it now. It makes his jaw slide, teeth grinding for a moment as he settles with his embarrassment.

“Takes one to know one, as it were.” Ornstein sighs, removing his hand from Artorias’ shoulder. His other hand still grasps his weapon firmly. “So now, we are a company, you and I.”

“Seems to be in line with our portended conjunction.”

“Don’t sound so offended, Abysswalker.”

Ornstein plans to seek Gwyn’s estranged… _exiled_ son. He hasn’t said it aloud; Artorias knows better than to ever expect to hear such a brazen denouncement of duty… of loyalty. And yet it isn’t at all. Ornstein is one of the most loyal, noble figures Artorias has ever known. To whom he remains most loyal was never a mystery, at least not to Artorias, but perhaps it will be a sore development indeed for Lord Gwyn.

It is cold, and it is dark. Artorias bows under the amalgam; his work seems, suddenly, very heavy. The darkness eats at him with such a force that the sword in his hands becomes naught but brittle hope, rusted with time and with blood.

The snow is relentless; it is daggers flying in the air. Regardless, Artorias is thankful to be lost in the white of it while he ascends endless steps, even as he is unable to raise his head enough to see that which he sought; again, he can only grasp the hilt of his waning faith in Gwyndolin’s corresponding lack of self-discipline - a new development for the pair of them. This habit of compulsion would no doubt bring a world of troubles. Stupid that he cannot shred the desire for Gwyndolin to be standing there in wait for him… in fact, the very thought makes his heart pound with savage intensity.

No one. The halls were empty. The flowing curtain, twinkling seafoam and peach and cream, billows serenely. Mocking him.

He walks further and further, feeling more like a trespasser, even though no one would ever name him one.

He recited poetry here once, and then saw that poetry in motion. The sound of his sabatons, flecked, now, with rashes of black, as if stained by charcoal, echoes in the rafters. He stops walking, and the remnants of that clattering fades away, leaving nothing but the ambience of far away life; distant patrols and conversations.

Artorias removes his helm, stares ahead. He feels a wave of fatigue wash over him. The soft glow of light soothes him, at least - now all there is left to do is sleep. It won’t come easy, he expects, but the idea of shedding his metal skin after what must have been ages and ages would be godsend, no doubt.

He is not certain why he hesitates while passing by Gwyndolin’s quarters… he thought he was of sterner stuff, but it seems that with every passing day, a part of him becomes all the weaker to these whims.

That weakness is not for naught. As if he had been there all the while, Gwyndolin appears from behind the translucent shroud, his snakes running course over the stone floor like small earthen streams.

“I…” The god begins in a voice almost akin to a croak, stopping to tuck away the distinct sound of nerves. “You must know, I had to entertain the notion you would not return.”

“To Anor Londo?” Artorias offers softly.

“...To me.”

Artorias feels his expression soften to match his voice. “True that some time has passed…” To acredit it solely to his duty would be a lie. “Your father would not look kindly on his trusted knight chasing his son by the heels. Or the scales, I suppose.”

Gwyndolin does not smile at the jape. His lips are tight. “Not for the reasons you think, but the reasons matters little.”

“Lord Gwyndolin... dead at your lips, they still matter. Speak them.”

“Oh, but you must know.” The god saunters forth, finally, approaching Artorias slowly. The way he puts both hands over one of the knight’s is so gentle that the touch is barely felt at all. He leads Artorias passed the gossamer curtain. His heart stops.

He has only ever ventured this deep into the abyssal plane. Elsewhere he lives on the cusp, always… even where his comrades are concerned. He had been close to Ornstein once, when it had benefitted them to be close. When it had seemed right. And now… he couldn’t say they were far. Simpy that they had their affairs to attend to. He couldn’t _remember_ the last time he’d been in someone else’s haunt.

To be fair, he could scarcely remark it a haunt. Even the hall that he was led into was grand; of course it was, being a part of this magnificent fortress. From there they turn and move through an archway, almost invisible… it could be, for all Artorias knows - the chamber beyond it is more simple than expected. Of course, the furnishings are ornate. Gwyndolin is royalty after all. It is almost charming how, despite status, even the most ornate pieces are still elegant enough to remain as quiet as their proprietor. Yes… every piece is unassuming and then uniquely beautiful, in that duplicitous way of Gwyndolin’s existence. Dark wood and light upholstery… fewer flashes of gold than perhaps warranted. It’s good, in a way; Artorias feels less imposing, less… unworthy of welcome here.

Gwyndolin’s hands slip away, and he lifts his helm off and away as he has done a few times before. He places it gently on a vanity, the glass of it worn and scratched - too cloudy, too marred to behold oneself in. The sight of it is… sad, because Artorias understands what it means.

“My father does not look kindly on me, if he ever looks, sir Knight.” His eyes are downcast, fringe rushing to curtain his face with the tilt of it. “When he… when his eldest was lost, that made a sore wound in him. I am no son to him; I am barely a daughter.”

“That cannot be…”

“You might look upon the empty pedestal where my brother’s likeness once stood.” Gwyndolin answers immediately, too ready to rebuke all pretense of paternal affection. “Which remains empty.”

Artorias is silent as he considers things he has never thought to consider. Yes… the pedestal for the eldest child of Gwyn did remain empty. That had never ocurred to him. Should Gwyndolin not have inherited a place at his father’s side? After his countless labours? Was there something not privy to Artorias that warranted this slight? He could not guess it for all the world.

“My resentment is trivial. More than an embrace, I only wish to be acknowledged; validated for my devotion. As any child, I suppose.”

Were it anyone else, Artorias would approach with little reserve. But this was Gwyndolin… helm or no, his divinity was still everpresent. The shadow of Gwyn loomed overhead, making him hesitate, and it may have been enough to stop him completely… yes, perhaps it may have been so; with a newfound perspective, Artorias steps forwards.

Gwyndolin meets him rather easily. Artorias thinks it would be humorous, in a touching sort of way, were the air not so heavy. There is soft, moonlight hair under his chin, a cheek resting on his bosom, and Gwyndolin does not cry (can he?), but he does give a great heave of breath.

“No one is more devoted.” Says the knight.

Gwyndolin’s hand tightens in dark hair, tangled in the mess of it. “That is what makes us alike.” Says the god, and Artorias smiles, kisses the top of that radiant head.

“What plagues thee so?”

A moment passes, and then: “I dread the cold. The fading of the light.”

It is painful to hear those words in such a voice, wracked with emotion. Artorias is almost glad the god doesn’t continue, reciting couplets meant for the tragic characters he should not relate to… should not understand. A foolish wish, considering he was a being that had experienced so much in so much time - would continue to.

“You are the white sun.” He murmurs almost sheepishly. He hears the ruffle of fabric as Gwyndolin shakes with a small laugh, and then trembles with heartache.


	4. iv

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is quite short, but I thought this fic deserved a proper ending. I want to thank everyone for commenting - I honestly did not expect the love that came, and just want to express how happy I have always been to read your responses. Thank you so very much, and I hope I can make you happy with this last chapter.

The folley of man is easy to name; it has many chapters, spanning across an impressive series. More interesting, certainly, is the folley of gods - something Artorias had never himself considered, but now stands staring at with clear eyes.

Love is messy and wild, and decidedly ungodly in the span of things. Any mortal would say it is not in divine nature to be vulnerable.

Gwyndolin moves like a feather in a gentle breeze, skin a mirror of the night, real and unreal in a way Artorias cannot separate. He is, to be clear, breathtaking; with knight’s resolve, Artorias finds air despite the odds, fills his chest with it as quietly as he can. Curses himself inside his head.

“You seem hesitant.”

“To touch you? Yes.”

“Is it…?”

“There seems a depravity to it, by my hand…”

Gwyndolin gives a breathy laugh, chest caving for it, lips breaking for a moment before he presses them together shyly, flattening them with thought before they part again with speech.

“I don’t care.” It is in the god’s meekest voice, and Artorias feels his face hot as the flames that bore his sword. _I don’t care_. ‘Well I do!’ he feels like saying, but the phrase never leaves him. He is distracted by… many things. Where even to begin? His heart and body will not give him the smallest moment of peace with which to sort himself.

What to do with a handful of serpents… but it’s not as if he has never met them before. His mistakes, his clumsiness, bring only forgiving smiles, and the healing chimes of angelic amusement. For that he is ever grateful.

 

\---

 

Morning arrives with an odd quiet. Gwyndolin is bare at his side, and he is bare before the jury of his mind, swimming in a flurry of things that move too quickly to grasp. He leans back into the bliss of the scene: the pearlescent light of Anor Londo, that deific sheet of warmth and assurety, sliding slowly like a sleepy maiden across the room. The cool air keeps them both under thick covers, shining scales spilling from underneath them at the foot of the bed - even Gwyndolin’s serpents rest easy now.

And Gwyndolin himself. He is not unmarred under all his dressing - he duels when he must, after all, and is proficient in the art of raining calamity on those who bespeak it. Even so, the way he sleeps is much like a child… his limbs are seeking, hair messy and covering his face which, like the rest of him, shirks all composure for the sake of comfort. Artorias feels compelled to pet Gwyndolin’s head, fingers running over silk in a way he hopes is pleasant. Comforting. Gwyndolin’s shoulders move with a gradual, deep inhale, and he rolls slightly, further into Artorias.

Gods. 

The knight closes his eyes and lets his hand run the course of Gwyndolin’s back before retracting it.

He doesn’t want to leave. He never wants to leave. Perhaps the world will end while he lays here, counting the tiny scales, like pearly freckles, on Gwyndolin’s arm. Tiny flecks of purple and teal and blue… twinkling… as a matter of fact, they remind him of twinkling titanite, now that he considers it.

A manicured hand passes over his navel and jolts him out of thought, and Gwyndolin laughs soundlessly at the tensing of his muscles, before rolling on to him with what is becoming a familiar measure of audacity.

“You’re always thinking...”

Artorias gets lost in the endearing quality of that sleep-slurred voice - in the softness of Gwyndolin’s expression as the god regards him. Does he look equally dishevelled? 

“No. My mind is regrettably blank.”

“Yes, so I’ve come to find about knights.”

Artorias exhales his amusement, unable to stop a smirk in its tracks. “That’s a bit unkind.”

“And yet, no riposte.” Gwyndolin smiles, hides himself under navy velvet only to poke out again, looking sobered. “Dalliance has never been more attractive, but…”

“I must away.” Artorias supplies in a heavy voice. It is curious. Duty has always been a compulsion. Now…

Gwyndolin sighs and slips out of bed. “Will you be long?”

There is not easy way to lie. Artorias settles for honesty, nodding quietly, trying to hold his gaze. Gwyndolin breaks it, turning away.

“Silly to ask.”

The room is quiet again. Oh, to be asleep again… half-awake and aware only of the god’s warmth against him again… he is desperate for that singular moment. Impossible. But Artorias smiles all the same, in that repentant way of his. He shifts closer to Gwyndolin, and runs a hand through his gleaming hair; that makes the god turn with timid curiosity.

“There was never a knight who did not return to his ward.”

“I am not your ward.” Gwyndolin interjects rather quickly, though he his fumbling, and it is clear that he is not as angry with the sentiment as he would like to show.

“Then be my love.”

Gwyndolin looks much the same as he does when stringing his bow, and then his jaw tightens, and his eyes become more reflective. Wet.

“How can you-say such things-at-at a-!”

“Very easily, bare, having woken up in your bed after very little sleep - despite having spent, in it’s glorious entirety, the night there.”

Gwyndolin’s eyes look more draconic as ever while he absorbs, stunned by embarrassment, or perhaps by the gravity of the circumstance. Finally, he looks away without another word, but doesn’t move, condeming himself to proximity . Artorias leans further to look up at Gwyndolin, who glances at him, and tries not to smile, and then pushes him away; he laughs.

“Forgive me.” Artorias murmurs, and means it in so many ways, which he hopes are not lost on the host of his most profound affection.

“Always.” Comes the soft reply, and Gwyndolin falls back and into his arms, revelling in the last instance of happiness, and tries to forget they must both, eventually, relinquish it.

 

\---

 

It is no exceptionally marvelous thing, to be sure, but Gwyndolin still stares at his finger.

The Abysswalker is not yet returned, but the god waits at the window yet, crown forsaken for the time being. Against the glass is his hand, pressed there so that he can see the ring even while he looks down at the open stretch of white snow. He wants to see it always.

It is a bit unremarkable; the image of a wolf suits Artorias more than himself, he feels, though he is charmed by it. That ring has become his most cherished thing in all the world - besides the man who put it there, and told him with unfaultering faith that he would return again.


End file.
